


i fell in love with you once (and again)

by zoeyclarke



Category: 9-1-1: Lone Star (TV 2020)
Genre: M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, anyway i love these two so much, but carlos helps him remember, i love that buttercup already has his own tag omg, tk lost some memory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23059858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoeyclarke/pseuds/zoeyclarke
Summary: Now they’ve both laid themselves out like open books for each other to read— and although many of TK’s pages are blank, the most important ones are filled with meaning.(Or: post-accident, TK has lost some memories, and apparently they're pretty important memories, too. Spoilers for 1x08!)
Relationships: Carlos Reyes/TK Strand
Comments: 4
Kudos: 225





	i fell in love with you once (and again)

**Author's Note:**

> hey! i'm just a hopeless buddie shipper who has now fallen for another show full of beautiful people (and these two beautiful boys in particular) 
> 
> to be honest i've only seen each episode once, so some details are fuzzy in my mind. certain details here may not be accurate, either for the purpose of the story or because i simply forgot. also please don't expect any of this to be medically accurate (would tk even lose any memory after that kind of injury? idk but it was a good opportunity for angst so i took it)
> 
> anyway thanks for reading and i hope y'all enjoy! (no i'm not from texas i just like saying y'all i'm sorry)

"you don't have to say i love you to say i love you"

\- troye sivan, "for him."

* * *

Last night, TK drifted off with his arms wrapped around Buttercup. Now the morning has arrived, harsh sunlight slicing through the blinds, and Buttercup is still very much nestled into TK’s side, serving as the loyal furry space heater he is.

With a groan, TK rolls onto his back. He lets his arm flop limply onto the dog’s massive chest. If TK closes his eyes and imagines really hard, Buttercup could  _ almost  _ be a lover filling the empty space next to him in his bed... but then a slobber-slimed tongue flops over his cheek, and despite Buttercup’s good intentions, the lick serves as a cruel reminder of reality.

The next dish of reality is served icy cold and arrives in the form of his dad, who swings the door open with an uncertain frown perched on his face and a distinct furrow denting his brow.

“I heard you groan. Are you alright? Do you need anything?” Owen asks, drifting farther into the room. He moves like he’s on the deck of an unstable rowboat, shuffling along cautiously to not tip anything overboard.

“I’ve been out of the hospital for a week, Dad,” TK replies. To emphasize his point, he makes sure to line those words with razor blades.

Owen is unfazed, however, plucking up the statement from where it was tossed carelessly at his feet. He comes to a halt at the foot of his son’s bed and tilts his head to the side, gritting his teeth in that sorry-but-not-actually-sorry wince thing he does. “Well. Six days, actually, not  _ quite _ a week yet. But anyway!” he says, quick to move on when TK pins him with a glare, “I just wanted to check up on you, make sure you’re doing okay.” 

TK crosses his arms over his chest and stares stubbornly at the ceiling. “I’ll be doing  _ super  _ okay once I’m back with the team,” he says for what must be the millionth time this week, and it still has yet to sink in. Yes, he knows the importance of recuperating—  _ “You had a grievous injury, Mr. Strand, and the recovery process will be a long one”— _ but he seriously feels like he’s reverted back to his same old self! With a desolate sigh (he lays on the gloom extra thick this time, again, just to make a point), he pinches at his biceps. It’s been over two weeks since he’s lifted, and he can definitely tell he’s losing form.

Unfortunately, this is a conversation Owen and TK have had several times already, and his father has gradually adapted his response to basically  _ no  _ response. Rather than tell TK yet again that it will be a while longer before he can return to the 126, Owen gestures at the empty glass on the nightstand and goes to grab it. “I’ll refill this water for you. Be right back.”

He’s out of the room in a blink, but TK mumbles out a “thanks” anyway, because if he’s lost nearly everything else, he can at least keep his good manners.

After a minute, Owen returns, the cup filled with that Fiji water he likes to buy (it’s always tasted the same as plain tap to TK, but he wouldn’t dream of telling him that). TK takes a few grateful sips while Owen puts the finishing touches on his uniform, leaning in front of the mirror in the corner for a moment.

“Have fun working and saving lives. Wish that was me,” TK mopes, scrolling idly through his phone. Mateo sent him a text containing an intimidating demand: _“you better let us see the dog today dude, we miss him (and you)”_ TK rolls his eyes at the (water) gun emoji sitting threateningly next to the words, because it’s never too soon for _that._ Right on cue, the little lump of scar tissue on his chest twinges, and TK has to convince himself that’s just a coincidence.

Owen comes around to the other side of the bed and ruffles TK’s hair. “Soon you’ll be back. I promise,” he says, but it doesn’t sound all that promising to TK in his current position. With all the shit he’s been through since before leaving New York, he really thought he would have reached the homestretch by now— but something keeps adding on to the tunnel before he can see the light at the end of it.

His dad then transfers his hand over to Buttercup’s equally tousled fur. If Owen could impart— or rather, inflict— his hair care wisdom on the canine, TK is sure he would. Owen kneels down and indulges the dog in a vigorous rub behind the ears, cooing softly to him the entire time. So much for Buttercup being strictly a firehouse dog; he’s clearly become much more than that (not that TK minds).

“You should bring him in today,” TK says. “Otherwise Mateo will kick our door down while brandishing a Nerf Super Soaker.”

Owen grimaces. “Well, we wouldn’t wanna face that.” He smooths his fingers over Buttercup’s dappled brown coat one more time. “Are you sure you don’t need the moral support today?” He turns Buttercup’s head to face TK and presses his cheek to the dog’s panting jowls. “You know he’s in the running to receive his therapist license.”

TK can’t suppress his smirk. “Yeah, yeah, he’ll succeed Dr. Phil for sure. But for now, I’m good. He should go see everyone.”

“Okay,” Owen concedes. He stands up and pats his thigh. “Let’s go, boy.” Buttercup hops down and follows him to the door, but Owen pauses before crossing under the threshold. “Oh! Before I forget, you’ll have a visitor coming by today.”

TK frowns. “Who?”

* * *

Two hours later, TK swings open the front door to reveal a familiar handsome face. Transfixed by the chocolate gems studded above a well-formed nose and full lips, it takes him a moment to recognize the small bouquet of dyed orange roses clasped in a pair of equally attractive hands. Wow, when has  _ every _ single feature of somebody  _ ever _ been this good-looking? Hell, even the guy’s fingernails are nicely shaped, little crescent moons trembling slightly around the foil wrapping holding the flowers together.

“Carlos,” TK says, tasting the name on his tongue as if he’s saying it for the first time, though he doubts it is the first time. Either way, he can’t remember for the life of him. He’s somewhat acquainted with Carlos Reyes, knows he’s close friends with Michelle, the medic captain. He knows Carlos is an officer whose patrol territory often overlaps with the 126’s. He knows Carlos has poor taste in bouquets (really, the orange is quite egregious, though he means well), and he knows that Carlos really has flawless little fingernails, and that the dimple in his left cheek is deeper than the one in his right— but that’s all TK knows. Seriously. 

“Uh, hey,” Carlos says, stepping inside the house when TK motions for him to do so. “How’ve you been?”

TK blinks at him. What a question. He’s bored, he’s sick of being doted on by his father and the others, and most of all he’s tired of the overly heavy chip he placed on his own shoulder. But then he takes in Carlos’s face— most people, when they’re concerned, get all those little wrinkles in their forehead and around their eyes, but Carlos’s features remain perfectly smooth and undisturbed. All the worry is crammed into those deep eyes, and, well— TK has always preferred the deep end of the pool to the shallow end.

“I’ve been better,” he eventually sighs out a response. He takes the roses with a crooked smile. “Thanks.”

“So, um.” Carlos strides through the house after TK, shoving his hands into his pockets. He has on an exceptionally tight blue t-shirt; the cotton is stretched taut across his broad chest, and the sleeves, though short, do a decent job at outlining his brawny upper arms. TK tries not to stare at the pecs fighting to be seen through the thin fabric, so instead he puts all his focus into filling a vase (probably the only vase he and his father own) with water and assembling the flowers in it.

TK grapples with his inner self to find a conversation topic that doesn’t involve what’s under that damn shirt (he’s definitely never seen under there. Right? He doesn’t think he has...) and he manages to land on a fairly solid topic: “Sooo... you’re friends with Michelle, right?”

“Right!” Carlos says, almost caving in with relief when the silence is shattered. “Yeah, um... she actually convinced me to go see you today—” He stops short, eyes bulging and hand gripping the back of his head. He spins away, kicks the air, and turns back to TK, wearing the most earnest expression. “I mean— that sounds bad. It’s just, well, your dad was telling us about... about your memory.”

TK huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, my memory. Or lack thereof.” He finishes trimming the flower stems and repeatedly fixes them into about ten different arrangements— anything to keep his eyes off the tempting figure and kind gaze standing beside him. “Doctors said my memory would be shot for a while, and that the recovery of memories takes a different amount of time for everyone. So who knows.”

“What—” Carlos’s gulp is audible. “What...  _ do _ you remember?”

“About what?”

“About...” Carlos hesitates, and suddenly TK feels like they’re in a car teetering on the edge of a cliff. It’s not up to him whether or not they take the plunge, yet somehow TK feels like this is his fault— like he’s the reason for the other man’s palpable unrest. Then Carlos says it: “About us.”

And they plunge, alright. TK’s stomach disappears instantly, falling through his feet, the floorboards, going all the way to the earth’s core, where it becomes molten. He closes his eyes and tries to think about Carlos, tries to recall anything beyond what he was able to when Carlos showed up at his doorstep ten minutes ago. He scrapes at the edges of his brain, raking through it until it causes a biting headache to pound at his temples.

The quiet is enough of an answer for Carlos, who ducks his head and clears his throat. “Okay. Cool.”

Well,  _ that  _ response is enough to trigger TK’s heart to stumble over its next beat. He finally stops messing with the roses and whirls to face his friend directly. The sudden movement prompts Carlos to glance back up, and TK can’t explain how, but the look in Carlos’s eyes is nearly akin to the gleam in Buttercup’s gaze when he’s caught with one of TK’s brand-new leather Sperrys in his jaws.

“Was— was there... something? Between us?” TK demands, jerking a hand in the heated air between them. He doesn’t even know if past tense is the right thing to use here, but the idea of saying  _ “is”  _ makes his heart climb higher up his throat.

Carlos chews on the inside of his cheek. “You want me to answer that honestly?”

God, TK wants so desperately to remember. He finds it hard to believe that he could  _ forget  _ someone like him— of all the memories to miraculously  _ not  _ slip out of his reach in the past couple weeks, the one where he actually got to have something with this walking work of art is the one he loses?

“I... I think I’ll like what the truth is,” TK mumbles. “If you would be so kind as to tell me.”

Now they’ve both laid themselves out like open books for each other to read— and although many of TK’s pages are blank, the most important ones are filled with meaning.

Carlos slides closer and offers him a lopsided grin. “The truth is  _ pretty  _ great,” he says, and TK catches on immediately  _ (oh my god, holy shit, I fucked this beautiful man),  _ “but we decided to take things slowly. So—”

“— no relationship yet,” TK fills in the unfortunate blank. One memory his mind was so polite to hang on to was his rejected proposal back in New York. With that reminder, it’s all too easy for the rest of the puzzle pieces to fit in place, and the bottom line is that Carlos very much cares for him, but TK decided he wasn’t ready for something new, or rather, something new and  _ real  _ quite yet.

And yet... TK has an idea. A harmless little experiment. Carlos is already in close proximity, so it only takes another step to eliminate any remaining space between them. Then one more move, and his lips are on his. A soft sigh rolls out of Carlos’s lungs, his relief exhaled in a puff of hot air that makes TK’s mouth tingle. At the same time, they lean more into the kiss, pushing and tilting and nipping until they get the angle and feel just right. The soles of TK’s feet are made of cotton candy, as is his brain— and that’s when it all comes rushing back.

_ The yellow hoodie he was wearing that day, a parting gift for himself from the H&M he used to frequent on Broadway. The way they came crashing inside with enough force to splinter the door and knock it off its hinges. The bronze shine in Carlos’s gorgeous eyes, the purest want, the deepest need for him. The utterly undone moan grunted into his neck; never had “Tyler Kennedy” been spoken so sexily before. _

TK’s eyes pop open; Carlos senses this and pulls back, but they keep their foreheads pressed together. “I dunno how I could ever forget you,” TK groans into his mouth. He recalls now, too, that he booked it out of there immediately after their hookup, and a fiery shame burns through his veins. He knows  _ why  _ he did that— he was scared, scared of the way someone new cared for him, cared for him in the same way he was cared for before, before in a way that turned out to be false. But  _ how  _ could TK have done that to him? Carlos deserves better. More images return to TK now, his mind filling with endless hallways lined with framed portraits of regret.

“You’ll remember soon,” Carlos assures him, bumping their noses. “I’m sure you will.”

TK thinks harder. He thinks about the dark world he was in for a week, lying as a useless inanimate object in that hospital bed. He thinks about the voices that cut through the darkness, brief snapshots of light: Mateo’s energetic ramble, Marjan’s reassuring murmur, Judd’s sarcastic drawl, Paul’s amused chuckle, Dad’s solemn rumble— but there was one other voice, one he could almost connect with a face, almost—

He thinks of the way he can feel Carlos’s smile when he kisses him; he thinks of a gentle hand pressing a tissue into his cuts; he thinks of gray sweatpants sitting low on hips, teasing a strip of tan skin just above.

He remembers now, the warmth that filled his hand when that same voice spoke to him in his coma. Maybe he can start fresh.

TK holds Carlos close to him and he doesn’t plan on letting go anytime soon. “Yeah,” he answers. “I think it’s coming back to me.”


End file.
